


Language of the River

by moon river (quantum_consciousness)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, De-Aged Characters, First Kiss, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Protective Siblings, Slow Burn, The Old Willis Place AU, and is dealing with the trauma 10+ years later, author read the old willis place in the fifth grade, but by like a year or two, sorry in advance to hama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27211324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantum_consciousness/pseuds/moon%20river
Summary: Sokka and his little sister Katara have been living with Old Hama in Mr. Jacob’s estate for years. They can’t show themselves to anyone, and they sure can’t leave. But when a new caretaker arrives with a teenage boy that seems to be about Sokka's age, he might just be tempted to break the rules to finally have a friend of his own…Zuko has been dragged out to the middle of nowhere by his Uncle to stay in a decrepit old estate while his Uncle finishes his novel. The climate is gloomy, the trailer they stay in is cramped, and he is sure the woods surrounding the property are haunted. He just wants to go back home, until he meets a boy his age in the woods that makes him change his mind…Or, a Zukka ghost story.
Relationships: Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: general horror themes and imagery, child abuse and negligence. If you see anything else let me know and I will add more warnings!
> 
> This story heavily borrows the plot of The Old Willis Place by Mary Downing Hahn, if you know you know ;). I last read it in 2009 so the plot and characterization may drift. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
> Characters are aged down: Sokka is 14, Katara is 12, and Zuko is 15. Expect nothing inappropriate.
> 
> Dialogue written in between ≪≫ is spoken in native Iñupiaq. I am not native, so if I get anything wrong please let me know.

Sokka accidentally cuts the little worm at the end of his stick in half.

Alright, maybe not so much of an accident; Old Mr. Pakku’s new pulp novel about flesh-eaters with regenerative abilities is said to have taken inspiration for such an anatomical feat from worms, and maybe Sokka wants to see if that’s true. But now Mr. Worm isn’t moving, and he sure isn’t growing himself a new body. Bummer.

It is starting to drizzle, the heavy fog that makes it a little hard to breathe and even harder to see condensing into something with more character. Just the way Sokka likes it. 

He gets up to start looking for another worthy subject for his science experiments, treading deeper into the marshy earth adjacent the River that runs through Mr. Jacob’s estate. He supposes there are more rivers outside this land, not that he’s ever seen them, so this one is the best. The water is totally transparent, the little native critters never bite, and the rocks always shine pretty colors when the sunlight refracts off the water. Iridescent, that’s a new word from his studies.

“Ee-Rah-De-Sent,” Sokka sounds out loud. Words always sound prettier in your head, he muses.

The marsh gets muddier the closer he gets to the River, and he asks a silent word of forgiveness to his tattered galoshes, and sends a silent prayer in advance to his behind when Old Hama gets a look at his poor shoes. The surface of the water dances from how the drizzle breaks the surface, and the stream picks up. The storm must be migrating from the west, from the River’s source. The rain here is light now, prime weather for earthworm digging. 

“Sokka! Come see this frog I caught!”, his little sister’s shrill voice breaks his concentration. Ugh, it’s like her annoying him is scheduled.

Sokka thinks maybe he should be a little nicer to Katara. As a 9-year-old in a house full of old gas bags, the only real friend she has is him. But shouldn’t he get some moments of _alone_ time? Isn’t that what growing 11-year-old boys need?

Whatever, he’ll be mean to her next time she interrupts him (he won’t).

Further down the River, Katara sits on a mossy tree stump in an oversized blue raincoat, probably Old Hama’s. She always liked Katara more, anyway.

“Lookit! It’s not green, though. Aren’t frogs usually green?” Katara shoves the animal in his face.

Sokka takes it from her and inspects the creature. He _is_ the explorer here. “Frogs can be any color under the sky, you know that,” he tells her. This particular lump of grossness is a dull grey color, with circles of brownish-red running down its back. “Never seen one like this, though. Where did you say you found it?”

Katara points down the River, where it takes a sharp bend and exits the estate. “Just near the water. It wasn’t moving when I went up to it. It’s still warm, so it can’t be dead, right?”, she looks at him with hopeful eyes.

Alright, so he’s the medic here, too, responds, “No, I don’t think it’s dead.” Sokka blows at its little face, sees its eyes blinking. It's responsive, so why isn’t it moving? He puts the frog down, maybe it’s just so frightened it’s frozen in a state of shock. Old Mr. Pakku once told him all animals have “modes of defense”, perhaps this is just one of them.

The frog croaks, loudly, and Katara jumps. Then it stops moving again. Huh. 

Sokka still has his excavating stick with him, might as well put it to good use. He pokes the frog and it just… rolls over. Better poke it again for good measure - 

Suddenly, the frog splits open, from the top of its gullet to where its cloaca would be, and what must be a hundred worms burst out. Katara screams and ducks behind her stump. Sokka would scream, too, if he wasn’t so entranced at the strangeness before him. 

The worms seemed to have filled the frog to the absolute brim, pouring not just out of the stomach, but the intestines, the outer lining of its guts, even the thin esophagus, now how is that possible? You would think the frog was nothing but worms to begin with. What would be the frog's final croak is drowned out, more worms pouring out of the poor thing’s mouth, writhing and twitching. What’s worse, its eyes start blinking rapidly, and before Sokka knows it, a worm pushes past the left eyeball, squirming to free itself from its victim's eye socket.

What was a harmless little resident of the River is now a pile of gross, slimy, bloody worms. “That’s weird,” Sokka says mutely.

“And disgusting,” Katara says, a little calmer but still shaking a bit. “Looks like he sure had his fill.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sokka nods, unable to tear his sight away. A handful worms start burrowing into the ground, some others heading towards the River.

“Go wash your hands,” he tells his sister, “you don’t wanna get warts.”

“Ugh, that’d be even more disgusting,” she says, stomping to the River in her giant black rain boots.

Well, how’s that for flesh-eaters with regenerative abilities?

This isn’t the first inexplicable thing to occur on Mr. Jacob’s estate, so it’s a little easier to turn away from the prematurely-decomposed frog corpse. Just then a cowbell rings from the direction of the mansion, a signal Hama uses to get them back inside the house. Neither her or Old Mr. Pakku are in any condition to be yelling their lungs out to fetch them, which makes no sense to Sokka, since they always seem to be in perfect condition to whoop him for stomping on the stairs too loudly and leaving dishes in the sink and treading into the house with muddy boots and - 

“Let’s go, the rain is gonna get us sick,” Katara says, already walking to the house.

They go through the service entrance on the west-facing side of the house, the main entrance not being “for them”, apparently. This time, Sokka remembers to leave his galoshes at the door and not soak the carpet with rainwater. Katara leads them to the small kitchen at the back of the house, where they, along with Mr. Pakku and Hama, eat their meals. On the small four-seater is a meal of warm bread and steamy chocolate milk.

Something is up. They never get chocolate milk. 

Just as they sit down, Old Hama comes in with a wicker basket, and starts rummaging the refrigerator for blocks of cheese, ham, and containers of broth.

Without turning around, and without greeting them, she says, “There’s something you kids should know.”

“Did aakaga and aapaga send a letter?”, Katara turns to Hama, a moustache of creamy milk atop her lip.

Sokka winces, Old Hama hates questions about their parents and their aanaga Kanna. To save his sister, he says, "We haven't heard from them in a while, is all."

Hama turns to glare at him. Better him than Katara.

"Mr. Pakku is leaving," she says tersely, the permanent frown etched into her forehead growing ever deeper.

And - no - that can't be right. "But," Sokka says, "what about our studies?"

"Who's going to take care of the house?" Katara asks, and yeah, that seems to be a more pertinent question.

"No more of this," Hama says, back to packing the wicker basket. "Mr. Pakku was asked to leave by Mr. Jacob. You will not question anyone about this decision, you will give a sincere farewell to Mr. Pakku, and you will not bring it up if you come across Mr. Jacob."

That last one shouldn't be a problem. They _never_ see Mr. Jacob.

"But-" Katara begins to protest.

"No buts!" Old Hama yells. Oh no, Sokka thinks, she looks on the verge of tears. He wills Katara to drop it before the wells of Hama's eyes can get any deeper.

Sokka is sad to see Pakku go, for sure, but he suspects this means a lot more for Hama. He knows they aren't married (he's asked, and got a flick on the lip for lack of tact), but Hama and Mr. Pakku have been workers at the estate probably since it was first built. They must be really good friends.

Katara looks down at her mug sullenly. Then, Mr. Pakku comes into the kitchen with a brown chest and a long winter coat. The look on his face says it all. Sokka can't bring himself to ask any of the million questions running through his head right now. Katara seems to have gotten the picture, too.

Old Pakku digs a pipe out of the coat pocket, packs it with whatever weird grass adults seem to love to smoke. Wordlessly, with practiced ease, Hama comes up next to him to light the pipe with a matchstick. 

≪Boy,≫ Pakku addresses Sokka without looking at him, ≪There is a drawer in the bedside table in my old room where I keep my novels. I am leaving them to you, so make sure to take good care in them.≫ And, of course Sokka knows where the old man keeps his books, as if he and Katara aren’t in there every late night, or whenever else Pakku has free time, to keep up with their studies. In any other situation, he would be happy to hear that, but he can't even bring himself to say thank you right now. 

≪Young lady,≫ Mr. Pakku says to his sister, ≪You are old enough now to help Hama in the kitchen. Do not neglect your studies, and care to keep your brother on track.≫ Really, shouldn't it be the other way around?

The four of them drift into silence. Sokka sure wasn't expecting a load of this today. Hama finishes packing the wicker basket, sets it near the chest at the entrance of the kitchen leading to the service door. This can’t be it…

≪Are we ever going to see you again?≫ Sokka says, finally bringing himself to look at Pakku in the eyes. Hama comes up behind him and Katara, lays a gentle hand on each of their shoulders. A reassuring hand, not a forceful grip like when she needs to scold them silently. Her eyes still look watery.

Old Pakku sets down his pipe, looks at it like he wasn't even sure he was smoking. He sighs, ≪Sokka, Katara, be good to Hama.≫ 

Now that sure feels like a goodbye. Pakku never addresses them by their names. He steels himself, places a calloused hand on top of Katara's head, then leans down to kiss her forehead. He does the same with Sokka, pinches his cheek on the way. 

Katara isn’t looking at him, and Sokka can't do it either anymore, staring at his barely touched chocolate milk that has already gotten cold. Pakku makes his way out of the kitchen, grabbing the wide brimmed hat he leaves on the rickety coat rack by the water basin, the hat Sokka always likes to wear when he’s sure no one is looking. Wordlessly, Hama follows him out the door, lugging the brown chest behind her. 

Sokka has lost his appetite. Well, there's a first time for everything. 

Katara meets his eyes for the first time since they stepped into the kitchen. “Everything's going to be different now, isn't it?” she asks him.

“Yes, I think so,” he says, sullenly. He stands to dump his milk down the sink.


	2. The New Caretaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new caretaker is moving into the estate, some old geezer that looks too excited to be here and his son who looks positively miserable, parked right on Sokka’s front yard. This should be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates won't usually take so long but it's been an interesting couple of weeks to be an American lol
> 
> Dialogue written in between ≪≫ is spoken in native Iñupiaq.

A new caretaker is moving into the estate. That is to say, the newest caretaker in a long and ever-changing line of men that followed Mr. Pakku’s departure years ago.

From his usual perch in a tree on the outskirts of the woods, Sokka can see the whole view of Mr. Jacob’s manor, all the way to the gatehouse where the eastern entrance is baring its wide arms open for the latest guest. This isn't one of the estate's usual visitors, not the agriculturists in a too-small sedan to check that the overgrown weeds haven’t mutated into having an appetite for human flesh. Not the boilermaker coming to let the pressure out of the antiquated boiler, lest it blow the mansion to bits. Not the plumber in a faded forest green hatchback with a scratched logo coming to check that the septic tank hasn’t overrun the property or the outdated lead pipes haven’t polluted the river system. Certainly not the linesman in the impeccable company vehicle to run phone lines through the property, not that anyone from the outside world is desperate for communication with the people living here.

This New Guy drives through the gates on a rust bucket of a truck with a fire emblem on the driver and passenger-side doors, pulling a five-wheel trailer, a sure sign as any that whoever it is, they are here to stay a while. A proper guest, and Sokka can’t help the smile that stretches over his features. The monotony of the abandoned manor is past the point of discomfort, and the sight of a new person to break the stupor is enough to get his blood pumping again. Even if he can’t go near them.

Living with Hama and the many caretakers of Mr. Jacob’s estate always came with rules. Rules about how to speak proper English and how to walk with respect and esteem; how to dress in quiet uniformity, so as to not attract attention; how to conduct oneself around Mr. Jacob’s guests to feign propriety; how to comport oneself to leave the ultimate impression of the house staff. Rules on how to sleep with both ears open, in case the master wants a glass of milk in the middle of the night; how to eat at scattered hours so you don’t faint of hunger after a long day of working in a home you cannot call yours. Now, Sokka and Katara live with a few more. Rules, that is.

They turn out to be quite simple. First, they are no longer allowed in the main manor house. Second, they cannot show themselves to anyone.

They cannot stay in the guest villa, where more recent caretakers usually lodge, or the service cottage that is too close behind the mansion. That leaves the woods, which has always provided for Sokka and Katara. The River teems with fish that are easy to catch, one of the last lessons Old Mr. Pakku imparted on them. The canopy of the overhead trees gives them respite from the heat in the summer, and the thick brush warmth in the brutal winters. When they are sure there is no one on the property, they get to wander, to the wild rose garden on the South Lawn, to Mr. Piandao’s now abandoned conservatory, to the shaded veranda on the guest villa. But never near the manor. Never there. 

With the dismal old stack of Mr. Pakku’s books, three leather bound lined notebooks and an inkwell to maintain their reading and writing, Sokka and Katara establish a New Routine. Sokka despises it.

This living is only a slight upgrade from the last few months under Hama’s watch, but not by much. At least then, Sokka had someone to talk to other than his baby sister, had someone else to play with, had at least a cot to sleep in, a flowing number of books to read. Real human connection, he means to say. Now, it is as if time stands still, and they have to stay put as people come through the gatehouse to leave a mark on the manor, and leave as they get on with their lives.

People come, make sure the structural integrity of the mansion doesn’t come to bits. The caretakers never last, but the house stays upright, and Sokka and Katara stay put. Contradictorily, Sokka wishes the caretakers and the boilermen and the plumbers would stop coming. Let the property crumble, let the estate decay. Maybe then they can find life elsewhere. 

Sokka turns his head to the mansion, eyes the vines that have completely overtaken the facade. It is a slow undertaking of the various caretakers to restore the estate, perhaps to make it a permanent residence again to some millionaire with an over-inflated ego? To turn it into a hotel for travelers who want a taste of the rustic life? Who knows. He looks back at the eastern gates, the ones that opened up to him and Katara years ago.

_ ~~~ _

_ Sokka grasped on tightly to his aanaga’s calloused hand, dragging a gunny sack of his and Katara’s clothes behind him. It was really cold, so he was wearing a thick overcoat and fur shoes. Aanaga had Katara in her other hand, and his sister had her thumb in her mouth. She was too old for that, his parents didn’t let him get away with that when  _ he  _ was six.  _

_ That thought just made him sad again, thinking about his parents and why he wouldn’t be seeing them for a while. They said it was getting too dangerous to live in their tribe; lots of people were getting sick, and American soldiers were getting nosy about how they lived their lives. Aakaga and aapaga made the decision to move them out before it got worse, and left their explanations there as if that would suffice. They hugged him and Katara tightly, promising to send plenty of letters, and sent them on their way to live with an old friend of aanaga. _

_ They rode on a coal-powered railway for almost a week’s long journey, in a very dark cabin with barely any furniture or sitting room. At least they brought their own food and water, making pit stops at the rest areas when supplies were running low. They landed in a small town, much farther south than Sokka had ever been in his life, but still north enough to feel the bitter winter chill in the air.  _

_ The town marketplace had all types of shops, butchers and meat curers, farmers and florists, tailors and jewelers. It was small, not like the pictures of the big cities like New York and Chicago that had reached them back home. But still overwhelmingly different from anything Sokka was used to. They sat on a bench outside the cobbler, and Sokka was glad to finally set the heavy sack down.  _

_ ≪We can wait here for Hama, I do hope we made it to the right place,≫ his gran said after catching her breath. He sure hoped so, too, there was no way he could get them back home from here. _

_ Looking around, Sokka was able to take in the faces of the locals. He easily noticed the pale faces of the white people, noses and cheeks turned pink and swollen in the cold as if they were made of parchment and all the blood of their insides were about to leak through. The pink people seemed to always be the shoppers, never the people working the shops. Maybe the other side of the market had more pink men as laborers. Every now and again, he saw people with much darker skin than his own, the Black women traveling together with their children held tightly against their bodies. He was most excited seeing other Indians in the vicinity-  _

_ (≪Don’t let those men call you their made up words,≫ Sokka remembered his father once telling him, ≪You know the name of your people. Never be afraid of wearing your name proudly...≫) _

_ -Other people that looked like him, like maybe him and Katara were not so far away from where they were supposed to be. But all it took was a glance at the ghost-white skin of the tall men in wool coats and bowler hats to know that was not the case. They were not home, and would not be there for a while. _

_ Then was when Sokka saw an older woman, maybe about his gran’s age, in a familiar looking blue anorak approaching them. Aanaga’s face broke out in a grin, and she stood to meet the woman. For a couple of seconds they just stood observing each other, taking each other in. The other woman barked out a laugh and drew Gran into a deep embrace. Gran pressed her nose to the stranger’s cheekbone and breathed in, the stranger doing the same. They separated only just, holding each other by the forearms, their smiles never cracking. _

_ ≪It has been too long,≫ Sokka’s Gran said, bringing her hand to cup her friend’s face, ≪Just look at you now, a made woman!≫ _

_ ≪Blood, sweat, and tears,≫, the lady responded, smiling brightly and going on to talk about someone named Pakku.  _

_ Katara moved over to lean her head on Sokka’s shoulder, already losing interest in the adults’ conversation. Sokka pulled at her wrist to get her thumb out of her mouth.  _

_ The women seemed to remember they were there. Gran led her friend by the hand to the bench, presenting her to the kids. _

_ ≪My children, this is Hama, my dearest friend since we were younger than you are now,≫ Gran said. ≪She will be taking care of you at her place of employment for some time.≫ _

_ Hama’s smile dropped just enough for Sokka to notice, but she inclined her head in greeting just the same. Katara waved up at Hama, her hand creeping up to her mouth again before she seemed to remember herself. Sokka bowed his head at the old woman, but his smile did not reach his eyes. As if she could read his standoff-ish energy, Hama’s voice hardened. _

_ ≪It is a pleasure to meet you kids,≫ Hama said, looking straight through Sokka. _

_ It was gut-wrenching, having to pull away from his Gran Gran without knowing when Sokka would see her again. For Katara’s sake he had to be strong, so he buried his sadness deep in his belly, and willed his eyes not to cry. No such luck with Katara, though. She already burrowed her face in his chest, her tears not yet soaking through his winter coat, but likely would if she kept this up. He held her hand and squeezed, hoping to send her some of his strength.  _

_ Ms. Hama led them on the long walk to Mister Jacob’s Manor House from the town. This Mister Jacob had a professional chauffeur, but apparently Ms. Hama couldn’t use him because she is a worker. That meant lugging his and Katara’s baggage in one hand and Katara herself in the other down a rocky road for 30 minutes. Ms. Hama didn’t bother helping.  _

_ ≪How well do you speak English?≫ the old lady said, turning to him. _

_ ≪Not well, I have only picked up a few words here and there,≫ Sokka responded for the both of them. _

_ “You’ll do good to pick up more than just a few words, boy. If you are to live under Mister Jacob’s roof, you should be able to communicate properly,” Hama said, continuing her march onward. _

_ “Alright,” Sokka said, involuntarily gripping Katara’s hand. She pulled out of his grasp, having calmed down some. He willed Hama to drop the subject before he embarrassed himself any further with speaking English. Her words confused him; he always figured he communicated properly, was ahead of his years even. _

_ They finally arrived at the estate, saving Sokka from having to showcase just how little English he actually knows. A gatekeeper was waiting at the gatehouse, a pale man that looked about his father’s age in a paper boy hat, a bomber jacket and dark jeans. He opened the gates and exchanged a few words with Hama, too quick for Sokka to catch. The gatekeeper didn’t bother looking at him or Katara.  _

_ The absolutely gargantuan manor was hard to miss. The road from the gatehouse sat between two massive lawns, the brightest greens despite the winter chill he had ever seen, with deep yellow flowers lining the path. Looking to his right, Sokka saw a small forest, the depths of which his eyes could not meet, that seemed to stretch along the whole of the property. To his left was a two story house with a porch wrapping all the way towards the back. It would have been the biggest house he had ever seen if not for the main attraction. _

_ The road led to a three story brick mansion house, the columned edifice like something straight out of a European painting. The facade had strategically placed vines encircling the veneer, manicured to look especially artificial. The large entrance sat right at the center, the doors of dark wood with a reflective sheen and two golden buffalo heads for knockers. Two arched windows were placed directly above the entrance, the whites of the curtains as bright as the white man’s eyes. If he allowed his mind to drift enough, Sokka could almost imagine the manor house as a face, its abnormally large eyes staring deep into his own, the curtains billowing in the draft making the eyes blink at him. The marble white columns surround the mouth, like the beards of the white men from the town, or the elders from his village. The imagery didn’t help when the maw of the massive head opened wide for him, to swallow him, to consume him.... _

_ The front doors welcomed in Sokka and Katara, although they did not know it would be the last time the welcome would be so friendly.  _

~~~

Sokka opens his eyes, mind pulling away from the memory. When did he close them? He is starting to lose time again, a symptom of his inconsolable boredom and lack of mental stimulation, he figures. The sound of a congested engine brings him back to the present, and to his newest source of entertainment (hopefully).

The driver of the truck parks on the north lawn in front of the manor house and adjacent the woods, giving Sokka an unencumbered view of the action for the next few weeks, or however long this New Guy will last.

The trailer rolling behind the truck sure gives him pause, though. Are they going to stay there instead of the guest house? That sure hasn’t happened before. 

From the driver’s side of the red truck, a stout and portly man of age steps out with a wide grin on his face. He’s balding somewhat at the crown of his head, his long grey beard flowing in the wind as he moves around the truck to the entrance door of the trailer. If he is as old as he looks, he very likely isn’t a novice when it comes to maintenance and upkeep, so it won’t be like the third caretaker that somehow let the ensuite of the master bedroom in the guest house flood the whole second floor. The old man’s lips are moving, is he talking to himself, or… 

There’s someone else coming out of the passenger side door of the truck: a long, gangly boy with tan skin and a mop of long, black hair loosely tied in a bun at the crown, dressed in slightly ripped blue jeans and a black t-shirt under a red flannel. That’s new, usually the caretakers are men without family, certainly without kids to accompany them.

Really, Sokka hasn’t seen someone younger than 40 enter the estate in a while. There have been instances of young people, college students most like, sneaking onto the property to get a look at the supposed haunted house. Sokka and Katara tend to oblige their morbid curiosity and make howling sounds from the woods to scare them off and away from the manor house. This kid is different. He can’t help but stare and wonder why someone as young as this kid looks would want to spend time in a rickety old place like this. Probably the same as Sokka did: against his will.

From where Sokka can see the boy, he takes a lengthy, sweeping look at the whole of the estate, his eyes lingering on the main mansion. He turns to the woods, and Sokka ducks behind the leaves of his perch, making sure to stay hidden. He can see it now, the boy has some sort of growth on the left side of his face, maroon-ish in color, covering his eye and extending past his hairline. There is definitely a story behind that. The boy’s gaze stays on the eastern gates, his shoulders rising and falling in an exaggerated, defeated sigh.  _ I feel that one, buddy _ , Sokka thinks.

So, some old geezer that looks too excited to be here and his son who looks positively miserable, parked right on Sokka’s front yard. This should be interesting.

~~~

It’s an easy climb down from his vantage point and into the woods to find Katara, hiding out near the River where she always is. She is in her favorite spot, on a rundown stump that she has taken as her throne for a couple of years now. She has a collection of shiny rocks in her lap, molded down into pearls from sitting at the bottom of the River’s stream. Katara usually uses them to make necklaces, or rather talismans of sorts that she places all around the property when she is sure no one is around. 

Sokka steps a little loudly to announce his presence. "We've got company," he tells her, forgoing a greeting. It’s not like there’s anyone they talk to but each other. 

“A New Guy already? He didn’t see you, did he?” she asks without looking up from her project.

“You have no faith in me at all,” Sokka huffs, grabs some of the beads from her lap to roll around in his hands. “Get this,” he continues, “New Guy has a kid with him.”

“No fooling?” she frowns up at him. “Why would anyone wanna bring a kid to stay with them here?”

“That’s what I figured, they probably won’t stay here long is what I think. They’re not staying in the summerhouse.” Sokka takes one of Katara’s braided vines and weaves a bead into it. “They brought a trailer and everything.”

“Must be some in-between guy while they find a permanent caretaker,” she says, braiding another length of rope. They both know that isn’t true. Mr. Jacob’s estate hasn’t seen a ‘permanent’ caretaker since Old Pakku.

“How old is the kid?” Katara asks when he doesn’t respond. 

“Didn’t get a good look at him,” Sokka shrugs. “Wanna go see them?”

Katara sighs, abandoning the half-made charm. “Sure, I’m bored with this anyway.”

On the walk back, Sokka and Katara stick close to the tree trunks, the mostly bare bushes giving them a useless amount of cover. They climb the main Looking Tree like they’ve done a hundred times before, the one sitting a few yards from the edge of the woods with just enough cover to both conceal them and allow them a view at the north lawn.

Sokka gets a better look at the boy from here. He can’t make out the words but he’s definitely yelling angrily at his dad about something. 

“New Guy doesn’t look that old,” Katara whispers into his ear, “He’s just really grey.”

Sokka hums, “His kid is already yelling at him about something, I’d go grey, too.” Katara huffs a quiet laugh. He squints, trying to make out the words his ears can’t catch. “Do you know what they’re saying?”

“I think the kid lost something, probably left it behind on the ride over,” Katara says. “If it’s two people on the property, that’s double the chances we’ll be seen,” she continues, eyes locked on the boy as he enters the trailer after rummaging the bed of the truck. “You should consider staying away from the lawn.”

“You should consider minding your business,” Sokka says, immediately dodging her aim at the side of his head. He doesn’t say it with any malice, though.

“If we’re seen-”

“I know what happens if we’re seen. I won’t let it happen, Katara, I know the rules,” as if he isn’t the one that made them.

“If you know, you know,” she says, shaking her head. 

The caretaker’s mood doesn’t seem to have wavered, and the kid seems to have calmed down some.

Katara is silent for a moment, then-

“His name is Zuko,” she says.

“New Guy?” Sokka turns to her, wondering how the hell she could hear so far away.

“No, the kid. That’s what New Guy just called him,” she says, here eyes trained.

Sokka looks at the pair of them. That's another thing, since the caretakers are always alone, he and Katara never actually learn their names. In more ways than one this is already gearing up to be an unusual set of circumstances.

Sokka hears some rustling to his right, not the usual sound of the wind grazing the branches. The sound isn’t Katara sitting next to him, coming from farther away. They both slowly turn their heads to see-

A giant rust colored cat with a heavy mane and golden-yellow eyes is sitting in a branch from the tree right next to them. It blinks at them, yawns, and continues to stare at them.

Sokka purses his lips. “Well shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first couple of chapters involve some world-building, but then we'll get into the nitty-gritty
> 
> Consider donating to the Oki Language Project if you have the means:  
> [ Oki Language Project GoFund Me](https://www.gofundme.com/f/oki-language-project)
> 
> Comment and kudos appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> aakaga = mom  
> aapaga = dad  
> aanaga = grandmother
> 
> Translation for North Alaskan Iñupiaq comes from [here](library.alaska.gov/hist/hist_docs/docs/anlm/200078.pdf).
> 
> Lastly, this is the first multi-chapter fic I am writing, and the first time I'm writing in the ATLA fandom. Comments are appreciated and get me to write faster lol.


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